Page 83 of A Heart So Haunted
“I know who put me here. The, ah, circumstances may be best shown instead of described, though.” His head tipped back until he stared at the ceiling. The curve of his neck, the tilt of his chin, made my cheeks heat. “It was Beulah, my nursemaid. I called her Bunny. She cared for me since I was a babe. It was not common for a mother to take care of her own, especially in high society, so the child was given to a wetnurse and was socialized with the parents once or twice a day.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He stretched his legs and leaned back on both hands. His shirt pulled. “I remember I called her ‘Momma’ once, on accident, and that memory was the most replayed in that space. I just …”
I didn’t so much as breathe while he considered his next words.
“However young, she was my mother in every way. She was there when no one else was and it … all—hurts, how things ended.”
“You miss her,” I whispered, a tinted note of longing in my voice. I wanted that, too, this pain he had, of knowing someone was there to love you, to build you in ways only a parent could. I wanted a Momma to love me, despite my mistakes. I wanted tomiss her like he missed Bunny. But I didn’t miss my mother—not like that.
It made me think of what he’d mentioned before, about not all relationships failing. Because he was right. I did want that, the connection, the ability to work on things with someone, the privilege of baring the ugliest parts of myself to another and having them not shy away.
I wanted to look another person in the eye and see the love in their irises, shimmering like broken lake water on a gentle breeze. Steady and soft. Persistent.
Hadrian’s eyes turned glassy. Once he blinked, they cleared, and his words came out rough. “I miss her greatly. Because there is no love like the guidance of a parent—by blood or no blood. She was that for me.”
Outside, the sad cry of a mourning dove split us.
“I have had a long while to come to terms with what happened, Landry,” he said, sincere. “She did what needed to be done.”
“What did she do?”
“Her concerns …” He scratched at the corner of his yellow eye, as if he could feel the difference. “I know little of what she did, since I was so young. I do know she always concerned herself with matters of the house.” He sighed, then grumbled, more to himself, “She made a comment once or twice about the atmosphere within it. That she needed to sustain it. Protect the place from my father in any way possible.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered.
“I remember … so little,” was all he said. I didn’t want to push. Just like those moments at night when I felt a tug from down the hallway, I was suddenly holding myself over the side of a bridge, watching the water rush below. If I let go, I’d fall. If I held on, I could wait for the water to calm.
Hadrian was the rushing high tide. His jaw ground too hard. His finger tapped atop the back of his hand.
“Hadrian?” I asked.
A shift. Whatever thoughts he’d been close to saying, evaporating. Sunlight started to peek farther over the treetops, magentas and peaches and warmth. “Yes, Landry?”
“Do you think—do you ever—” I tried another angle. “You never told me how long you were alone.”
Another pause. “Hmm. I do believe it is your turn to tell me something honest, yes?”
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like a wet rag on sandpaper. “I’m getting to that.”
“Okay.” The word was ponderous.
“From your years,” I tried, and this time I tried to meet his gaze, “do you think that it’s possible for someone to not feel alone?”
“Are you asking if I was lonely in that place, or are you asking as a generality?”
I shrugged. “Either. You’ve experienced more life than I have. That holds more value to me.” I wanted to know if this feeling would ever go away. The emptiness. That no one would quite understand the guilt I felt for how my family fell apart. How I’d handled it. How sometimes it felt like no matter how many people I was around, familiar or not, I was always a little alone.
“I should hardly consider my life experience more valuable than yours.”
“That’s a bit presumptuous.”
“If you mean, is it possible to not feel alone because of a lack of family, then no. I do not think it is possible for someone to not feel alone, if only a little bit.” He pressed the toes of his shoes to the bookcase. His eyes hardened. “However, families come in many forms. If you are asking how long it was before I did not feel lonely within that place, I would say never. The memories berated me on a constant rotation. It was hard to remember whatnormalfelt like, or what life was beyond my child-self crying, my father appearing, and Bunny searching for me.”
I soaked in the words. The images his voice conjured.
“It was painful. At first, I always seemed to be the creature. I could never will myself to beme. But over time, I accepted somethings. Like my father’s choices. And Bunny’s. I gained more liberties with my form, and as time passed, I only relived select memories at night. But the house always changed with them. It was like a pressure—right on my chest.”
I sat the piece of trim down and wrapped my arms around my knees. I held my wrists in a desperation grip, the skin on the underside of my arms softer than fresh marshmallow. My jeans were stained with paint and something like oily ink I couldn’t identify.
“I think I’m having a hard time understanding how you’re not still angry,” I whispered. “At your father. What he did to you, and reliving it so much.”
